


A Mandalorian Hello

by diindjariin



Series: Untitled Mando Series [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Female Reader, Minor Violence, Pedro Pascal is a sexy single dad and I'm here for it, Slow Burn, because i see him as a sarcastic dude not an asshole, give him all the soft things, lots of sarcasm from mando
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22019209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diindjariin/pseuds/diindjariin
Summary: The man sits in one of your plush chairs in the clothes you’d provided, his helmet, and nothing more. You were right – the pants were too short. His ankles peek through the bottom, skin looking sun-kissed a covered in dark, thick hair. Without the armor you could admire the slope of his shoulders, how broad they were, the size of his arms. He was built like a god and the sight of him takes your breath away. He lifts his head and your gaze is met with cool steel. The light of the fireplace jumps across the metal.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Series: Untitled Mando Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600699
Comments: 10
Kudos: 278





	A Mandalorian Hello

If asked to choose three words to describe yourself, tough wouldn’t be one of them. It wouldn’t be in the top ten, either. In fact, you would likely find yourself using descriptors that are the exact _opposite_ of tough; sweet, kind, naïve even. This fact is one that is not only carved within your entire vision of yourself, but it’s one you’re proud of. In this world of uncertainty, it takes a great deal of courage to help a stranger rather than point a blaster at them. This quiet courage is what led to your partnership with Mando some months ago.

It’s dark outside, early evening, and a storm rages outside. Rain comes down like bullets and thunder rumbles dangerously close. The knock on your door is a shock, and you wonder what fool would travel in such conditions at night. Drenched to the bone and smelling of swamp water, he’d shown up on your doorstep with a small bundle in his arms, asking to be permitted shelter. He hadn’t been able to reach the part of his (carefully rehearsed) speech where he offered you money before you’d ushered him inside with open arms and a timid smile.

“I can take your cloak and helmet, sir,” you say, already reaching for the heavy cape on his shoulders. He turns, not allowing the touch and says,

“No. Thank you.” His words carry more than a breath of silence between them, and you feel as though you pay extra attention to the way they sound. A cooing sounds from the cloth bundle in his arms and it’s then that you put the pieces together – the small size and shape, the way he holds it, and now the sound.

“Is that – “

“A baby, yes,” says the man. His slowness of speech is no longer present and you wonder if it’s a habit when he’s unsure of his words. In this he seems more confidant. “Do you have something dry I could put him in?”

“Of course! One second,” your words are spoken quickly while shuffling across your small home and disappearing into another room. Once gone, the Mandalorian takes the time to investigate your home. It’s quite homey, with two comfortable looking chairs and a fireplace in the wall. Books seem to be the most common decoration, placed neatly in a bookshelf and, when space ran out, made into neat stacks on the floor. Most look bent from use, and the Mandalorian shivers at the idea of being able to consume so much.

Footsteps alert him of your return and he straightens his posture. In your hands is a lot more than clothing for the Child, however. Soft-looking brown trousers and a long-sleeved tan shirt arrive in your arms too, as well as a thick white towel.

“My father passed some time ago, but I’ve left most of his things untouched. The pants might be a bit short, but they should fit alright. I brought the Child something of mine: it will be way too big, but if it’s just to sleep in..” you sound unsure, giving reasoning for your every move, as if this incredible act of kindness may be considered hostile by the Mandalorian. To you he seems stoic, possibly offended, but behind the helmet lies a secret smile of disbelief. The Mandalorian is unsure of the last time he’s experienced such kindness.

He takes a step toward you, then another, until he stands so close he has to strain his neck to look down at you. “Thank you.”

An embarrassed smile passes over your lips and you look away from his helmet to stare at the clothes. “You’re welcome.” You hand him the small pile and reach out your empty arms, “I can clothe the child in the other room if you’d like to change.” He looks at the child, whose eyes are now open and eager, instinctively brings him closer to his chest. You notice this and say nothing, wanting nothing more than to put the man at ease. After several long moments, he nods his head once rather than speak.

It only takes about two minutes to change the gurgling child into his new outfit but you stay in your room for much longer. You can’t imagine how long it must take to remove all that armor and you’d rather leave him too long than walk in on a half-clothed man. After fifteen minutes you leave your bedroom and approach the living area. The man sits in one of your plush chairs in the clothes you’d provided, his helmet, and nothing more. You were right – the pants were too short. His ankles peek through the bottom, skin looking sun-kissed a covered in dark, thick hair. Without the armor you could admire the slope of his shoulders, how broad they were, the size of his arms. He was built like a god and the sight of him takes your breath away. He lifts his head and your gaze is met with cool steel. The light of the fireplace jumps across the metal.

“This little guy is adorable,” you say, bouncing him a bit. He gurgles. “What’s his name?”

The man flounders. “He doesn’t have one,” he replies and there’s disbelief there, as if he’d forgotten that names are something important.

“You should give him one,” you say, stroking your free hand down one of his ears. His big eyes close in satisfaction. The man hums but does not respond. You shift the Child and approach the man, handing the Child to him. You watch as tension leaves his shoulders that you hadn’t noticed until you watched it recede. His looks at the child in his arms and strokes a single finger down his ear. “Can I ask you something?” The man turns his face up to yours and nods. “Are you running from something?” The man squirms in his seat but doesn’t look away.

“Yes,” he says, “Does that.. bother you?” He sounds unsure, genuine, rather than accusatory.

“Not particularly,” you say, taking a seat in the chair next to his, “we get all sorts in this area. Bounty hunters, mercenaries, you name it. I just want to know if I should be on my guard.” You can’t see his eyes but there’s a fire that burns from your eyes to his, a physical force that screams of eye contact yet none exists. You know he can see yours but the playing field isn’t level. Still, you do not look away.

“Yes,” is all he says in return, making you wonder if he means “yes” to the question of running or “yes” you should be on your guard, but you figure the result of either is the same. You tell him your name, still looking at the small slits of his helmet where his eyes must be. You tell him your name softly, offering some sense of trust. Rather than give you the same he nods, repeats it under his breath. You find you like the way he says it.

“Why did you let us in?”

You sit in the armchair next to the man, a warmth erupting from the fireplace. It casts a golden glow across your fair skin, lights up his armor.

“You needed help,” you say almost immediately. A loud clap of thunder erupts from outside and the rain seems to pelt down harder. “Besides, leaving you outside would be a death sentence. You’re a lightning rod in that armor.” He huffs and the sound is filled with humor.

“I can pay you,” he says and now he means business. His body shifts, leaning forward in his chair and resting his elbows against his knees. You shake your head with a small smile.

“Unnecessary. Being allowed to play with such an adorable child is payment enough.” His helmet tips to the side in thought and he sighs.

“Okay. Thank you.” You smile and nod. His gaze travels around your home, taking in his surroundings, not focusing on anything in particular. “What do you do? Here, I mean.”

“I work at the cantina in the city,” you say leaning toward him, “but I’ve always wanted to travel. My father flew private charters when I was a child. He used to tell me all about the different planets he went to, the people, the food. It sounded wonderful.” Your voice gets wistful and when you notice he’s staring, you blush. “But that was when we lived in the mid-rim. We moved here after the Old Republic fell.” He hums and nods but says nothing. You smile and rise from your chair, making your way to the fireplace where a pot has been boiling. You busy yourself by pouring soup into three bowls, setting them on the table. The man shifts uncomfortably and looks at anything but you.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, then begin to flounder. Does it smell bad? “I’m sorry, I should have asked what you like. Is it not – “

“No it’s,” he’s also struggling, searching for words that would make you understand but reveal little. “I can’t – I’m a Mandalorian.” At this you stop, words getting trapped behind your throat. “Have you… heard of Mandalore?”

“Yes,” you say, though you sound unsure, “vaguely. I’m sure most of what I’ve heard is false.”

“I can’t remove my helmet.”

“What – never?” you ask, voice full of quiet astonishment. He nods. “How do you eat?” At this he chuckles.

“I can remove it, just, not in front of others.” Your eyes widen in understanding and you immediately scramble to fix the situation. Pointing to your bedroom behind you, you say,

“I, uh, can eat in my room. Bring the baby.” Silence. “I’ll leave you to it then.” You scoop the Child up in your arms and he coos again. The sound warms your heart. You reach for the soups which rest on the table but before you can grab them, the Mandalorian has your wrist in his grasp. It catches you off guard and you jump, almost knocking the soup off the table.

“Why are you helping us?” he asks and there’s a desperation there, a quiver in his voice. He sounds confused, yes, but there’s a darker undertone. He demands an answer, one that will make sense to him and yet despite this you find yourself trusting him. The dark quality to this statement only fuels this trust because you see just how threatening he _could_ _be_ but has chosen _not to be_. Your answer comes naturally from there.

“What reason do I have not to?” This answer seems to satisfy him in that it leaves him bewildered and confused. You grab the bowls and turn, heading back to your bedroom. You make it halfway before turning again. “Knock on my door when you’re done. Then you can take your child and sleep in my father’s old room.” You turn again and disappear inside your bedroom, shutting the door behind you.

The next day, they come.

You’ve always been a heavy sleeper, and as the living area of your home burns to the ground you notice nothing. The Mandalorian jerks awake to the smell of burning wood and immediately looks for the Child. He’s fast asleep. Then he remembers you and figures if you haven’t come to wake him by now then you’re still asleep. He dons his helmet and straps on his armor is record time, grabs his blaster, and tucks the Child into his chest. Then he makes for your room. You’re sleepy and disoriented but you get up when he tells you, throw on a jacket, and hightail it out of there.

There’re three bounty hunters waiting outside, blasters drawn. The Mandalorian drops his blaster and the three of you are taken prisoner. You haven’t got a clue how you’ll get out of this one but the Mandalorian assures you he has a plan. As the hours of walking to town as prisoner pass so does the fear. It’s replaced with an ache for the home you’ve lost, the memories. Your father’s clothes, old family albums, an old friend’s favorite book. The pain is real and visceral but you do not cry. It could be strength of will but it’s most likely the shock settling in. You’ll cry later. Not now.

They stop to rest and the tallest bounty hunter approaches the Mandalorian, eyeing his armor up and down.

“Your helmet will look nice on my wall,” he says and spits on the ground. “So would that green fucker’s ears, but the request says he’s to remain alive.” The bounty hunter kneels to the ground, eyes blazing. “No preference for you, Mandalorian. I could slit your throat and drag you behind if I wanted.” The Mandalorian says nothing but the air around him crackles with energy. To your horror, though, the bounty hunter now turns to you. “But _you_ ,” he says, laughing, “there’s nothing about you anywhere. Who the fuck are you?” You press your lips together tightly and say nothing. “Not a talker? Guess that suits the tastes of someone like him,” he nods his head in the Mandalorian’s direction. But his eyes are locked on you. He lifts his right hand up and places it on your knee. “Personally, I prefer a screamer. Would you scream for me?”

“Let her go,” says the Mandalorian. It’s the first words he’s spoken since getting captured. “She has nothing to do with any of this.” The bounty hunter chuckles but removes his hand.

“What’s this? If a Mandalorian has a woman she’s no longer permitted to sleep around? Does she become your property after you’ve been between her thighs?”

The Mandalorian surges. He’s a sight to behold, cape flapping wildly with the wind as the bounty hunter falls in a heap. The Mandalorian has a blaster between his cuffed hands before the other two hunters can even react, shooting them down effortlessly. He hadn’t been waiting for a fuck up on their captor’s part. He’d been waiting for an opportunity.

You’re free, finally, and he unlocks the cuffs across your wrists delicately. The steel bites into your flesh and red rings circle your wrists.

“Thanks.” You don’t elaborate more than that but you’re sure he knows you mean thank you for more than removing the cuffs. The Child approaches and lays a small, green hand on your thigh. The Mandalorian stands and offers you his hand. You scoop up the child before taking it and he lifts you both.

“We should go,” he says, scanning the horizon. “More will come.” You nod your head jerkily and then stop when it makes you dizzy. One strong, gloved hand reaches up to your shoulder and squeezes it. Then you move, back the way you came.

He didn’t have much of a choice, after. Your home was burned to the ground because of him. He knew you liked the Child, and he liked you back, and if the Mandalorian was being honest with himself, it would be nice to have someone else around.

“I’m sorry. About your home,” he says once you’ve arrived back to the burnt-out shell of your family home. “I can give you money. To rebuild, if you want. Start your life over.” Your eyes are fixed on a singular point in the rubble, a corner of the living room where a stack of books had been. All that remained was a few pages that somehow avoided the flames. “But there’s another option.” At this your head raises, eyes tilted to look at him from the corner of your eye.

“What’s that?”

“You can come with me” he says. His voice isn’t soft but it’s… smooth. The invitation is real. He’s offering. “I’ll pay you. Take care of the ship, but most important, look after the Child.” The Child gurgles when he’s mentioned, shifting in the Mandalorian’s arms so he can peek out at you. “That is… if you want.”

You consider your options. He’s a Mandalorian, a bounty hunter. With him he carries the most expensive bounty in the galaxy, one that hundreds of bounty hunters must be tracking. He’s dangerous, he fights like he was made to kill, and yet.

And yet you remember the way he spoke to you the night before: calmly, slowly, almost shy. How he knocked on your door and pleaded for shelter when he could have just as easily broken through with his blaster. How he bargained with your captor to let _you_ go. How he attacked your captor after he touched you. You remember that you’ve never left this planet before and that almost every book you’d owned were about intergalactic travel.

“Okay,” you say quietly, smiling genuinely. “Yeah, I’d like that.” He nods and, letting you know that your employment starts now, hands the Child off to you. He turns away from you and begins walking toward the forest behind your home where he’d left his ship. “Besides,” you say, trailing close behind, “you got my house burned down. Now you’ll have to provide me with a new one forever.” He huffs a laugh but doesn’t turn around. In a voice dripping with humor he says,

“Keep talking like that and I’ll revoke my offer.” You shake your head and jog a few paces so your walking next to him rather than behind.

“No way, no take-backs. Now you’re stuck with me.” His helmet dips slightly and you guess he’s peeking at your from the corner of his eye. He sighs, which just makes you smile. He turns to look ahead again and you begin chatting idly to the Child, which excites him. He likes to be included. While you do this the Mandalorian watches you, a smile curling the corners of his lips. It’s when his face begins to hurt from the length of time he holds it that he realizes he’s well and truly fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't my first fanfic I've ever written, but it is the first one I've posted to AO3 (plus my first Mandalorian fic). This fic is an exercise in writing a female character who's strength comes from maternal/kind/feminine qualities. Don't get me wrong, I love a badass female character that fucks shit up and takes no shit, but here I'm interested in exploring a softer female without creating a character that just sits around and lets the men take care of everything, but also isn't a fighter. So.... yeah. That's why you can expect from me and this fic/hopefully series.
> 
> If you'd like to check out my tumblr, it's @diindjariin.  
> If you'd like, I'd appreciate it if you'd reblog the post for this fic on tumblr: https://diindjariin.tumblr.com/post/189939413911/a-mandalorian-hello-din-djarin-x-reader-rating


End file.
